


Excerpt: TRACKS

by palorium (littletrenchcoatangel)



Category: TRACKS - Fandom
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littletrenchcoatangel/pseuds/palorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploration into an original character's dealing with culture shock and another OC's reaction to it. Apocalyptic setting. POC character that is potentially non-binary (that's what I'm leaning towards, I'm not sure I'm capable of writing it effectively). Minor age difference between focus characters (~6 years) with minor hints towards a budding relationship.</p>
<p>Basically:<br/>E - smol POC grandma friend, made of rage and puppies, trusts most people, will fight you if you mess with their family<br/>Brooks - tol beard friend, likes Richard Siken poetry, trusts literally no one, will fight you, a) if you mess with E, b) for no reason</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excerpt: TRACKS

**Author's Note:**

> A piece of original fiction I wrote for a university assignment, with characters that are a part of a larger universe that I'm working on for a potential novel/TV series (though I'm only aiming for a novel at this point).

From a distance, it looks the same as everything else in the world: abandoned, decaying, _dead_.

It’s only when you get closer that you hear voices and laughter; that you smell and taste cooking food in the breeze.

It’s only when you get inside that you see just how alive it really is.

 

* * *

 

It’s easy at first, to settle in. They don’t ask you to do much, just help out from time to time and keep out of the way when they don’t need you.

For the most part, you busy yourself with people-watching, waving jovially from the park bench that marks the make-shift town’s centre. Occasionally someone will stop by to talk to you, ask for your help or your opinion, but you always end up right back on that bench, trying to ignore the eyes burning holes in your back.

Brooks, who you’ve been with for so long that he’s practically family, keeps an eye on you from a few metres away, perched on a wood pile behind you.

When you turn around to glare back at him, after almost a week of the same dull routine, he’s sharpening his knives – unnecessarily, you know, because he cleaned and sharpened them the day before.

“What are you doing?” you ask him.

He grunts, not looking up, and flicks his thumb against the blade in his hand.

“Brooks.”

He looks at you through his lashes, gaze flicking momentarily to one of the town’s original residents – ‘bait’, he calls them – then back down to his knife.

“You can’t sulk forever,” you tell him.

He grunts, rolling his eyes, and scoffs as you turn back to watch the people.

 

* * *

 

Two and a half months pass with relative ease.

You are – both of you – given jobs, relevant to your skills and interests.

Brooks is a handyman, mostly because he enjoys working in silence and no one wants much to do with him.

You are a scout – charged with gathering supplies and monitoring the perimeter.

_“Because you are fast,” the woman in charge tells you. “And because you are quiet. And because you have survived so long out there.”_

_“Brooks has, too,” you remind her._

_“We don’t trust him to come back,” she admits, and you go silent, stunned._

Each time you come back from a run, Brooks meets you by the gate, no matter what he should actually be doing.

Each time, he checks you for injuries – scratches, bites, bullet wounds – and each time you fuss until he either finishes or gives up.

Every night, he tries to convince you that this isn’t where you belong. That it isn’t where either of you belong.

“Why?” you ask him one night, and it’s hard to keep your voice down when you’re so _angry._

“Look around you,” he pleads. “These people, they’ve been here since the beginning. They haven’t seen what’s happened out there, they don’t _know_! For God’s sake, E, they think they’re _safe_.”

“They _are_ ,” you scream at him. He stares at you, barely moved, and you take a deep breath before continuing. “You said it yourself – they’ve been here from the start. That means they _are_ safe.”

“No,” Brooks says. “It means they’re a goddamn target.”

You laugh before you can help yourself, clutching at an injury on your chest he doesn’t know about, and let yourself fall back into one of the kitchen chairs.

“A target,” you echo, breathless.

He stares at you, his expression serious, but after a while his lips start to twitch. Eventually, he lets out a chuckle and takes the seat opposite you.

“We’re safe here,” you promise him.

It’s the last thing you say before you go to bed, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

He always goes to bed after you.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, you find him passed out in the middle of the day, apparently taking watch.

When you wake him, poking him with the butt of his own rifle, his hand falls immediately to the knife at his hip and he pushes himself against the wall as he rises.

Once he realises it’s you, his fingers drop away and his head falls.

“I could have hurt you,” he breathes, chastising you out of habit.

“I can handle myself,” you remind him. This is a discussion you’ve had before.

He rubs sleep from his eyes, checking his wrist for a watch he’s never had, and you breathe out an aggravated sigh when you catch him wince at an obvious headache.

“It’s almost one,” you tell him. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

He shrugs, climbing to his feet. “Keeping watch.”

You reach a hand out when he stumbles, rubbing at the muscles in his leg, but he waves you away.

“You didn’t say they’d given you shifts,” you say quietly.

“They haven’t.”

“So, what are you-?”

“Can’t sleep,” he interrupts, but he won’t look at you. “Might as well do something useful.”

“’Sides,” he mutters, when you take a shaky breath instead of speaking. “They barely ever station anyone on this side of town. I’m doing ‘em a favour.”

“Brooks…” you start, but you’re not sure what to say.

He finally – _finally_ – meets your gaze, and for the first time since you arrived here, he looks guilty.

“How long?” you ask him.

“Bit of a loaded question, don’t you think?” he retorts, chuckling, and you feel your heart lift and settle somewhere near your tonsils.

That night when you go to sleep, you pull him into bed with you.

He protests, saying you’re overreacting, but when you wake in the morning, he hasn’t moved.

He looks more peaceful, sleeping beside you, than you ever thought you’d see him.

 

* * *

 

After three weeks, you have him on a strict sleeping schedule, and for the most part, he sticks to it.

Sometimes you have to sit with him to make sure he eats, even if he stares at nothing for half an hour, and you fight so often you wonder if he was right, initially, when he said it wasn’t a good idea for either of you to stay.

Eventually, though, the five month anniversary of your arrival rolls around, and he starts to settle.

He starts volunteering to help people out, rather than waiting for them to ask him, and he – mostly – stops glaring daggers at anyone who tries to talk to you.

You catch yourself watching him at town meetings, marvelling at how much he’s changed. He still gets weird sometimes, withdrawing to the empty houses for hours without a word, but for the most part, he’s – not happy, you don’t think, but he’s adjusting. The way this place feels has started to make sense to him.

That, more than anything, makes you happier than you’ve been in a long time.

When six months rolls around, you organise a little party – just you and him – with chocolate, booze and, because of a favour someone owed you, a nice, cooked meal.

It’s not much of a surprise – word spreads quickly when you get hold of chocolate – but you don’t mind much because you know how much he hates them.

It’s nice, though.

The two of you get to relax and unwind. You get to _talk_ , alone, for the first time in what feels like forever, and just enjoy each other’s company.

It isn’t like the last time, when you let his negativity overcome you and drank until you couldn’t see the disappointment in his eyes. With the way he watches you from across the room, you can tell he’s as glad as you that you’re both getting better.

 

* * *

 

He comes home late one day, while you’re in the shower.

You wrap a towel around your waist when you hear him clamour through the front door – he knocks three times on the wall, every time he enters, to let you know it’s him – and meet him in your shared bedroom.

You lean against the door, a gentle smile tugging at your lips as you watch him struggle out of his work boots.

“Busy day?” you ask, and the whole scene is so domestic that it takes you by surprise.

He breathes out a laugh, not looking away from where he’s wrestling with his laces, and shakes his head.

“Nah,” he starts, and struggles for a moment more before giving up and toeing the offending boot off with his other foot. “Jonesy caught me at lunch, said I’d been losing too much weight. Sat me down for two and a half hours and told me all about her grandchildren, practically force-feeding me scones.”

You bark out a laugh, stepping into the room to put his shoes away.

“She’s got a thing for you, I think,” you joke.

“Jealous?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows as he laughs. He reaches out and catches you by the wrist, surprising you, and when you turn to him his expression has gone serious.

Worry overtakes you immediately, and you find yourself scanning him for injuries before you can even think to speak. He hasn’t looked at you like that for a long time – not since you were outside the walls.

“Hey,” he says, noticing, and he knocks his finger under your chin to catch your eyes. “Everything’s okay.”

“Then wh-?”

“I was wrong, before,” he says, cutting you off, and the hand on your chin trails down to your chest. His eyes follow the movement, and he notices the scar on your collarbone that you got months ago. He brushes his hand over the raised line, concern bleeding from his fingertips, and you find yourself, not for the first time, mesmerised by the contrast of his skin against yours. When you meet his gaze again, he smiles.

“You do belong here,” he continues, almost as an afterthought.

“So do you,” you assure him.

He laughs, stepping away, but he doesn’t disagree.

You consider that a win.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you would like to read more. I need validation. I'm scared of the real world.


End file.
